


Steam

by Syndicate_V



Category: Guild Wars 2
Genre: Gen, also my first time writing for charr yay me, slight mention of torture, this was a prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndicate_V/pseuds/Syndicate_V
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A female charr's warband, fresh from a routine patrol, bunks down for the evening in preparation for the journey back to the Black Citadel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steam

**Author's Note:**

> Received from a friend in-game (for a modest fee, though she was just taking the piss), was told that "things get steamy" between members of a charr warband.
> 
> First version of this got deleted by ZenWriter, which is what I get for not spam backing up my things as well as I used to. I'm bitter about that, tbh.
> 
> These characters aren't mine, they belong to [name redacted], who requested this. Hope I didn't disappoint; it's nice to get back in the groove of writing. c:
> 
> This is also on [GotVG](http://www.gotvg.net/viewstory.php?sid=2193) and my [side-Tumblr](http://jetvex.tumblr.com/post/97734635954/prompt-steam).

Charrgril Roastfur brings a white-furred paw up to her neck, claws catching the tender bundle of nerves all knotted up there. She makes a heavy noise, huffs lowly in the back of her throat, rolls her neck to alleviate some of the pressure mounting there, the pressure she knows won't truly abate. Her decorated locks clink together as she does so, a soft chime to accompany her movements.

Her movements are continuous, restless. Her warband--an offshoot of the Blood Legion--has received nothing but skimpy patrol routes (and she has her own thoughts about why that might be the case; she'll have a bone to pick with the Tribune if she's correct), and, while she appreciates the lesser work, it does not stop her from her muscles from constantly being at the ready, her eyes from always being alert. Even now, when she is simply trying to find a place for them to bunk down for the evening, a hand skitters to her longbow, her eyes dart warily from one side to the other. She refuses to be caught unawares.

Determination has laced her every step since she was initiated into Blood Legion; she will not falter, not even when her weary bones call for rest.

She holds up a hand, releasing a sharp call for the two accompanying her to halt. The young guardian following her--Charrlet Roastheart--nearly jumps out of her skin, hastily making an attempt at "playing it cool" by pushing her gold-hued goggles into her similarly-hued hair with a cocky grin, as if to say "you didn't see that; I'm still rad". With a glance over to her bandmate, Ghul Doomslash, she makes sure he didn't see her amateur-esque mistake, but she needn't worry; the necromancer is far too busy burning holes into their leader to notice Charrlet's goof-up. Something that might've been taken as insubordination by a "lesser leader" (Ghul's words, surprisingly) is merely acknowledgement of the male's "quirks" (Charrgril's words, unsurprisingly).

It's one of the many reasons Charrlet's glad she was assigned to Charrgril's warband. The austere woman looked over the younger guardian day one and told her "do what you like, as long as you follow orders". Charrlet--ever the jokester--asked: "Does that mean I don't have to wear Blood Legion reds?" "Reds" being the term for the garishly spiky armor every heavy was forced to wear; as a guardian, Charrlet (unfortunately) automatically counted. Charrgril looked over her the younger female's ensemble, eyes immediately going towards the patch of exposed downy white fur (that Charrlet thought clashed nicely with her normal coloring of spotted gold; it simply had to be shown off) over her chest. The intensity of her gaze bothered Charrlet. "So...is that a 'no', then?"

Charrgril had loaded up her longbow with practice rounds in silence, released a barrage of them on the younger female with no preamble. Despite the lack of warning, Charrlet still managed to summon up a reflective wall, effectively ruining Charrgril's attack.

Charrlet remembers her leader's feral teeth exposing themselves fully in a fearsome grin. "No reds for you; you're fine as you are."

Now, looking back on the experience, she wonders if Ghul had to go through something similar. Offering him another glance, she assumes that his task must've been holding a conversation with their leader without his maw twitching or leaving rudely, without explanation. The image of the surly necromancer, with his thick brow ridge and jutting jaw, dealing with social graces causes a surprised spurt of laughter to emerge from her. Ghul meets her laughing eyes with eerily pale ones, the thick black paint (Or is it simply unfortunate patterning? Charrlet never thought to ask; Ghul would never answer) underneath them giving more menace to his appearance. Where Charrlet is all brightness with her sunny colors and bright disposition, Ghul is decidedly...not. His gear looks as though it has seen the ravages of war--what with its tatters and all--but, Charrlet knows for a fact that the ragged appearance of his armor is deliberate. She's seen him take a knife to his sleeves edges, fraying them as well as his bottoms, something about "the details matter". As if a charr with skulls strapped to his shoulders isn't imposing enough.

"Charrlet." Charrgril's voice is low, doesn't need to be any higher to get the younger female's attention. With no small amount of embarrassment, she meets her leader's gaze, covering that discomfort with a smirk that is all teeth. Satisfied that she has their attention, Charrgril points towards an outcropping only but a few meters off. "We'll make camp there; Ghul, you go ahead and grab wood for the fire." At that, he looks ready to complain, but decides against it, settling on instead bobbing his massive head up and down in acquiescence before making a sharp about-face and wandering off, muttering something about "damnable bearbows". Charrgril motions towards her remaining warband member to carry on, and it isn't before long that the outcropping is reached and they can lay down their packs without worry.

Charrgril--never one to rest on her laurels--immediately sets herself to the task of seasoning the cast-iron skillet in her pack in preparation for the evening's dinner. She took care of her own, and it was an unspoken thing that Charrlet and Ghul weren't allowed to cook, not when Charrgril was around. Besides, she did it better. Charrlet feels the saliva collecting in the back of her throat. _Loads better._

She swallows, grabbing her bedroll from her own pack and getting it set up. "Y'know, I say you go ahead and actually tame a bear." Her eyes are full of mirth as she fluffs up her pillow, placing it down on her roll before motioning towards Charrgril's in silent inquiry. Charrgril nods, and Charrlet attends to her roll as well. "If only to annoy the sour coot."

The leader smirks, a flash of teeth revealing themselves as she evens out the seasoning on the skillet. "As if it isn't his constant state?"

Their shared mirth goes on until the "coot" in mention returns, carelessly tossing his collected logs at Charrgril's feet. Some knock against her bent knees, and Charrlet's laugh chokes off. There is a marked tension in the air as Charrgril looks up from her meticulous seasoning of the skillet to meet Ghul's eerie eyes. He doesn't apologize for his mistake, not with words (he's incredibly _proud_ , that one), but has the grace to look away first. Insubordination would be in his defiance; he is many things, but not a fool. He bends down, picks up the logs that he threw against his leader so rashly, and shoves them together in a makeshift stack, going towards his bag to find the fire tinder. Not for the first time, Charrlet wishes she'd been an elementalist, or at least apt at a burning build. She's met guardians that can just set everything on fire and nothing but; it's ridiculous. And it must be crazy useful!

An awkward silence has come over the group, so, as befits her nature, the youngest clears her throat. "So...uh, we're having moa, right? I'm craving poultry like you wouldn't believe!"

Sated, Charrlet pats her blessedly full stomach, thanking whatever powers just so happen to be out there that Charrgril knows how to cook. The sage-stuffed poultry (moa meat will probably be her downfall) was entirely too rich for her, and yet she kept eating, and eating...and eating. And now she can barely move, fairly certain her leader and fellow bandmate are of the same mind. Well, Charrgril for certain, if her wobbly movements while attending to the used cookware were anything to go by.

Now, the fearless leader is fluffing up her pillow with one paw, bundling up her dark cerulean locks with the other. Through a yawn that she barely stifles, she states: "We'll be heading back to the Black Citadel tomorrow; your reports will be needed the day after." She directs her tired gaze first to Ghul, nodding once before moving on to Charrlet. "Watch is as normal; Ghul has first, 'Let has second. Wake me for the last." As it has always been, as opposed to there being more shifts, or taking dual shifts (as Charrlet and Ghul were both accustomed), Charrgril refused them this, saying that they'd both take two hour shifts, letting her take the longest watch in the darkest hours of night. If it affected her ability to lead any, she didn't let on.

With this order, Charrgril is dead to the world. Charrlet, by all accounts, should be joining her, but...

"Ghul."

Something's been bothering her.

"Nuisance."

Well, it isn't the rudest thing he's called her. Downright charitable in comparison, actually. Taking this as meaning his amenable to her company, she leaves her bedroll and moves closer to him, but not terribly so. Talking space, she doesn't want to crowd the grump.

But she also doesn't want her leader to overhear, though it's very obvious (by the gentle snoring) that she cannot.

"Charrgril, she's..."

Ghul looks over to the sleeping form of their leader, eyes softening for the barest moment. Charrlet recognizes the look because she oftentimes finds herself doing the same thing. It is a look of loyalty, the softness something borne of excellent leadership as opposed to the vulgar types certain Legionnaires dole out. Charrlet counts her blessings daily that she's under the rule of Charrgril and not one of those types; she shivers at the thought.

Ghul's voice is quiet, low. "I know." Those two words say a lot, that he is aware of their leader's constant pressing onward, of her relentless movements, of her restlessness when they receive a mere patrol as opposed to the heat of battle, which is what Charrgril really and truly desires, but will more than likely not be able to get back to.

She is too damaged. And it bothers her, bothers her more than even her warband will know, even though they can see the tense set in her shoulders, see her shaky breath in pre-dawn fog, hear her skittish growling when she is in the throes of a fitful nightmare and they are awake--like now--having hushed conversation.

But it is inappropriate to talk about their leader in such a manner, Ghul says so and the nagging guilt that Charrlet feels never seems to abate after these talks. So they take their watches in silence, and, when it comes time to wake Charrgril for hers, she rises immediately, a haunted look in her eyes. Charrlet tries to not flinch, her own rest fighting her as the image of her defeated leader rises to the forefront of her mind.

The leader of their small warband takes to her watch with grim determination, as she does with everything. She watches the campfire, tries and fails to not see images and horrors. But the memories refuse to fade, the burns lick at her skin still, singed wounds that healers were not able to grant her reprieve on.

And, when the voices rise to chant in her head, she realizes enough is enough.

She douses the fire.

The hissing steam placates her, if only for a time.


End file.
